Human Frailty: Creature of Blood
by StrikeMidnight
Summary: The 10th Doctor becomes human to defeat an alien parasite that turns innocent people into vampiric monsters. Alone and forlorn, the Doctor cares little for the dangers he faces as he becomes Peter Vincent, a damaged man whose horrific past leads to drink. Peter knows he has a mission, but is too scared to face it. That is, until the kid shows up asking about vampires.
1. Chapter 1

"Well," he put on his black rimmed glasses and leaned forward to closely read the screen. "This is something I haven't seen in a long, long time! Oooh aren't you a beauty! Ancient species, nearly extinct, vampiric, REAL vampires! Well, its more like a parasite really, but its difficult to spread. Almost impossible really. It's been tried on humans before but didn't work so why is it working now? What's changed? Hmm, this must be some kind of mutation, oooh this isn't good. Not good, No, no, no. Well we have to go and take a look at this! What do you-" He whipped around, "say?" His smile fell, he forgot again. He blinked several times, his dark eyes stung. The Doctor was alone.

He slowly removed his glasses and slipped them back into the breast pocket of his brown, pinstriped jacket. It had been about a month since the Doctor had left Donna back in the care of her family. A month since he had taken away everything that had made her into the most important woman in the universe. Everything that had made her the best friend he had ever had. He cleared his throat and continued reading the data on the screen in silence other than the ambient noise of the TARDIS. This particular alien parasite had been present on Earth for years, and the Doctor was aware of it, but to his knowledge it had never been able to infect a human.

"I guess I was wrong. All it takes it one person, ONE person with a specific genetic composition that lets the parasite take hold. But why come out of hiding now? What are you up to?" The Doctor asked the hum of the TARDIS control room. The screen bleeped and blinked a string of queried results. "Oh no. Can't be." The Doctor's brow furrowed in as he read on. A string of murders and disappearances with whispers of vampires in several small towns dotted across America.

"Oh no you don't." The Doctor skimmed through the query results, his finger tracing the data then tapping the screen when he located the most recent murder. A miniscule, mountain town in Montana called Golly. "Golly is right," he mumbled as he entered the coordinates of the town. He picked a spot about a quarter mile location right outside a small residential area and set down the TARDIS.

After talking to a few of the residents, the Doctor was able to get the addresses of a few newcomers to the neighborhood. The first house was a newly married couple, the second was a man and his two sons, and the third resident was not home. The Doctor pulled out his sonic screwdriver and quickly scanned the vicinity. "Nothing. Hmm. Then why do I get the feeling that there is something -"

"Hello?" called a woman's voice from the house next door. The Doctor dashed around the corner of the vacant house, diving into a large, flowering shrub. He thought it best to remain hidden just in case he needed to question this neighbor under less suspicious circumstances later on. The Doctor waited until he heard her front door close and peeked around the corner. The coast was clear.

"Close one!" He resumed his scanning only this time, there was something. The hairs on his neck stood up and his skin prickled. His hearts started to beat faster and his breathing became rapid. Before he knew why, the Doctor found himself running. He ran until he reached the outskirts of the neighborhood and came to a stop. The overtaking sense of terror that had come over him had waned and was replaced with confusion.

"What was -" the Doctor stopped, trying to catch his breath. He began to pace around, running his hands furiously through his hair, his long coated whipping back and forth. "Well! I guess I found what I was looking for! Let's see what I got on my scan, Allons-y!" He grinned and beckoned, but there was no one. He had forgotten again.


	2. Chapter 2

"YES! Brilliant, yes! Definitely found you," The Doctor had been meticulously analyzing the data collected from the vicinity sweep and was able to gleen traces the alien parasite. He had also done a few tests on himself and found that his strange, instantaneous fear had been the result of some kind of attack from the creature. A secretion, gas, or psychic field perhaps. "That means...," The Doctor shuddered making a noise of revulsion as he shook his head. The dangerous alien had been near enough to dose him; It had probably been right behind him.

"Hold on, how am I supposed to get close it if I keep turning tail and running? There's gotta be something. There's always something, oh!" He piped as the screen blipped with new data. The Doctor scrambled around the TARDIS flight panel, flipping levers and pulling switches, making a full trip around the panel back to the screen. He took out his black-rimmed glasses and read aloud. "This species emits a psychic pulse that induces fear in its prey. Must be a pretty strong telepath to The only known defense against the fear is to have a stronger emotion directly associated with the alien. A stronger emotion? Like what? Love? Hate? Yes, of course! Oh yes!"

The Doctor cut the celebration of this information short. It was invaluable, but how could he develop an emotion, a strong emotion, for a being he had never met personally? He could find another person who met the requirements, but what good what it do? Someone who had survived an encounter with such a creature would want nothing to do with it. Even if they did, the individual would probably get killed as the Doctor was running away in terror. The last thing the Doctor needed was another death on his conscience.

"What about a synthesized emotion, ah nope." the Doctor located the note in the file that labeled artificial emotions as 'ineffective.' What was there left? What could he do? This creature was killing and possibly converting innocent people if the parasite had mutated further. The Doctor had to do something.

"Alright, what about a memory implant? No, wouldn't work. Damn!" He was familiar with several technologies that altered or implanted memories, but none to date had ever worked on him. A Time Lord's mind was too complex for any of the memory devices he knew of. It would be like pinning up a sketch of a stick man in a collection of well-loved and familiar painting and trying to pass it off as an original.

"Oh," he said quietly, coming to the idea that he had been shoving to the back of his mind for hours now. "I could implant the memory if...I guess...it's the only way." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an intricately carved silver pocket watch.

The next morning he rented a storage space in a small city about 20 miles from Golly and parked the TARDIS inside. He knew what he was about to do was beyond dangerous and would most likely end up with him being killed, or worse infected, but the Doctor knew that he was the only one who could stop this creature. A nagging voice in his head kept telling him that his life was worth more than a few humans. Humans died every day and he couldn't save them all. He could be doing so much more right now instead of chasing an elusive monster that would probably kill him.

"No," he told the voice, "I have to try."

He took one last look around, then activated a button that began to lower a device from the ceiling of the TARDIS. The Chameleon Arch. He had used it not long before when he had to become human in order to hide from a dangerous family of aliens. The situation had played out, though not without an unforgivable amount of devastation to innocent people and people he loved. At least that time, he had had Martha to watch out for him. This time he had no one.


	3. Chapter 3

"What about this, is this," Peter hiccuped, nearly vomiting on the man standing in front of him, "is this your card?"

"No," the man said flatly, getting impatient with whatever the obviously inebriated street performer was up to.

"Oh shit," Peter rummaged through the deck, frantically flipping through the cards, dropping several, until he finally shouted in frustration and throws the deck at the store window behind him. The small crowd gasped at his outburst, but they soon cheered and clapped as they tossed money into his guitar case. The man's card had stuck to the window pane when the deck had collided with it. A fairly complicated bit of performance, and frankly Peter was surprised he was able to pull the trick off based on how smashed he was at the moment, but it kept the booze money flowing.

"Thanks, yeah, thanks," he nodded to the people still hanging around waiting for him to do something else. "I'm done now, piss off. Go to a casino or buffet or whatever you do in Vegas when you have money to blow," Peter waved his hands at the lingerers, snapping up his guitar case and heading across the street to the seedy hotel room he had been calling home.

Peter had ended up in Las Vegas about a month ago with no money and barely more than the clothes on his back. He had always been a wanderer, some unknown force compelling him to pick up and go on a moment's notice. It made things easy in the long run. He didn't have to remember people's names or get a job. He just moved on.

He made his way up the cement stairs, only stumbling a few times and approached the door to his room. Peter tossed the case on the floor and started counting through the tips. $64 and some change, not bad. He shoved the wad of bills into his jean pocket and put his long coat on, and started humming "Piece of my Heart." Time for a burger and booze run. He waved to Maria, the sweet, little, middle-aged maid that straightened his room every night and stumbled down the stairs.

Burgers and booze turned into binge drinking, bar fights and passing out in the gutter. Peter felt people poking at him and rolling him onto the sidewalk, but was far too gone to wake. He fell far into his dreams. He was young, playing outdoors past sunlight and starting to wonder why his mother had not called him indoors. A crash inside the house startled him and he fearfully approached the back door.

"Mum?" He squeaked. He slid the door open with a trembling hand and silently stepped inside. Peter walked into the room, the telly was on, but his parents were not in the room. He caught a whiff of something burning and headed to the kitchen. The stove was indeed making a charred mess of something in a pan and Peter dashed over to turn it off. Something underfoot caused him to slip and fall hard onto the kitchen floor. What was it? Had his mother spilled something? He brought his hand up to grab the dish towel from the oven's handle and saw the red. He then saw his mother, laying face down.

"Mum?"

"No I'm not your mum, you drunk piece of shit," said a gruff male voice. Peter's eyes fluttered opened as two pairs of hands stood him up. Red and blue police lights made him squeeze his eyes tight. The LVPD were there to escort him to the drunk tank, his home away from home.

"Fuuck. Oh -" Peter vomited and blacked out once again.

The next morning, Peter felt like he had been hit by a parade of semi trucks. He had made some money playing pool last night and ponied it up to pay his fines. A quick stop at the convenience store for smokes, a few bottles of water, and aspirin then back to the street. He usually grabbed a pastry at the shop, but they were a bit picked over today and only had a disgusting pear tart thing. He still felt extremely queasy, so breakfast was probably not a fantastic idea anyhow.

He performed quite well that day and made a nice wad of cash. Later that evening while going through his spoils, he even found a business card from a man who ran a stage at a small casino. It wasn't the first one he had received, he was always just too drunk or passed out to remember to show up the appointments he made. Still, there was always a chance he might get his big break. Peter called the number and set up a lunch meeting, then set out for burgers and booze.

Still recovering and feeling somewhat clear headed, Peter only partook in the burgers. He had been thinking about a new trick and thought he would take advantage of his current state to work on it once he returned to his room. Peter went over the workings of the illusion over and over in his head as he walked back to his door. He slid the key into the lock and turned, but suddenly found himself turning the key back and locking the door. He felt it, like an ice cube sliding down his spine. He took a step back and pulled a sharp, wooden stake from his trench coat's breast pocket.

"Fuck, oh fuck," Peter clenched the stake tight. He willed his legs to move, to step forward but they were frozen. His heart began to beat faster and his breathing became ragged. He spun around, dropping the stake and having every intention to run for his life, but something sparked within him. A fire of hatred and revenge. It had to be him, the bastard that had killed his parents. Peter reached down and picked up the stake, readying himself for what he will be facing. He stood slowly and set his foot forward to take his first step toward his doom when something slammed him in the chest, nearly knocking him over.

"What the fuck? Oh fuck!" Peter looked down at the severed head of the nice, little hotel maid. "Jesus Fucking Christ!," he looked at his front which was drenched in her still warm blood. His hands were red, just like they had been when he had found his mother. So much red. Peter started to run, nearly falling down the cement stairs. He ran and ran and he didn't stop until the sun came up.


	4. Chapter 4

Peter actually made it to the appointment with the stage manager the next evening completely by accident. His subconscious must have had the name of the restaurant where the meeting was to take place and automatically directed him there. By another stroke of coincidence, he had spent the last of his cash on some new clothes, therefore he was actually looking somewhat presentable. His old clothes and coat were crumpled in the shopping bag he was carrying and he planned to dispose of them after dinner.

"So what's your angle? I hope it ain't white tigers 'cause its been done."

"What the -," Peter caught the word before it flew into the manager's face, "What do you mean? Angle?"

The man leaned forward, a smug smile on his face. "Like what's your act? Your gimmick? Your signature?"

"Oh, uhh" Peter wracked his brain for something, anything.

"What's your mission?" the manager asked, still rattling off rephrasing of his question.

"Vampires," Peter blurted the word involuntarily. He definitely did not intend to say that outloud or had even thought about it and was starting to freak out a little.

"Vampires? As in you are a vampire?" The man looked incredulous, but slightly interested.

"No, I hunt them," Peter was speaking without meaning to again. He waved the waiter over frantically and ordered a drink, trying to keep from having a panic attack. Was the creature doing this to him?

"Vampire hunter?" the stage manager's eyebrows shot up, then lowered in a pensive expression. "Yes, that sounds pretty fucking cool actually. Get some of the younger people into the casino. They love all that vampire shit."

"Oh yeah, I bet," Peter sucked down the drink in one swallow. He grabbed the waiter's arm before he could step away and ordered another drink. A double this time.

"Mr. Vincent, I think we can work something out," the manager leaned across the table and grinned widely.

They spoke for a while longer about contracts, props, costumes, and the like. Luckily for Peter's sanity, there were no more incidents of speaking without intending to. After he had a few drinks in him, Peter was starting to feel more mellow. It was also starting to dawn on him that he was actually being booked for shows in a casino. A shitty casino, but still a Las Vegas casino.

"See you in two weeks, Mr. Vincent," the stage manager nodded to Peter as he gathered his coat.

"Yeah, see ya," Peter waved him off, nursing his last drink.

"Oh and Peter," the manager called to him. Peter turned and faced him.

"What?"

"Don't fuck this up," the casino man smiled and left. Peter let forth a string of stinging swears under his breath but soon realized that the manager was right. This could be the foot into the door, he really should do everything possible to not fuck up this opportunity.

Peter had been approached and even booked to perform before, but he would always get distracted from it. Whenever he tried to strongly focus on a job, or anything really, he would have vivid nightmares about the night his parents died and the monster that killed them. He would wake up covered in sweat, feeling like his chest was ablaze. Sometimes he would wake up outside or on a bus. He was being compelled to pursue the beast and exact his revenge, and the desire to do so consumed him almost completely. Peter never followed through. He was too scared. He was scared of the monster, scared of the way his insides burned with hatred, he was scared of dying. His fear always brought him to the liquor store, then straight home to drink himself to oblivion.

"Anything else, sir?" the waiter asked, clearing the empty glasses from the table.

"Nope," Peter picked up the shopping bag and headed outside.

He found a dumpster around the back of the restaurant and proceeded to toss in the bag containing his crumpled, bloody clothes. Peter walked back around the build and was about three blocks away before he found himself running back to that dumpster to fish out his long, brown coat. Peter was extremely fond of this particular piece of outerwear and he did not exactly know why, but drinking until you black out on a regular basis will do things to your memory.

He inspected the coat, glad that it had not been bloodied from the horror of the night before and put it on humming "Me and Bobby McGee" as he walked down the sidewalk.


	5. Chapter 5

The next few nights were steeped in bloody nightmares. Peter held out for the first two nights, trying to focus on his upcoming performance. On the third night of waking up terrified and hell bent on revenge, he gave in and headed out to his friendly neighborhood boozery.

The store was less than five blocks away, but as soon as he reached the bottom on the stairs he could see the police lights.

"Oh no, fuck me," Peter whined out loud. He was pretty damn sure than the store had been robbed again and the walk would be a waste of time, but his need for the alcohol compelled him to go anyway.

Sure enough, the store was surrounded by police cars and onlookers. There was absolutely no way Peter was getting in there. He swore out loud again for a good minute, then headed to the next closest store. The path took him into a weird part of town, new age shops and psychics, but they were not his concern right now. His destination was all that mattered.

"Excuse me sir," a woman called out from the doorway of one of the buildings he passed. Peter ignored her and walked on. He heard footsteps behind him and felt a tap on his back.

"What the fuck?" he turned, ready to hit whatever was keeping him from getting to the liquor store. A young woman was standing there, staring at him. She did not look startled by his reaction or even slightly put off. This lack of reaction made Peter nervous.

"Forgive me, but you seem troubled," she commented. He dark eyes were boring into him.

"Yeah, well, who isn't troubled. Now piss off," He retorted and turned to resume his trek.

"I can help with your nightmares," she remarked, almost offhandedly. Peter stopped dead in his tracks.

"What did you say?" he walked back to her, his face livid.

"You heard me. Now come with me," She turned and walked back to her building. Peter has a giant "Fuck you" all ready for her, but instead he was overcome with an intense curiosity and found himself following her.

The entry room was ludicrously decorated in moons, stars and brightly colored, wispy fabrics. Through the beaded curtain was the parlor. A large round table draped with a ridiculous tablecloth sat in the far corner of the room, a large crystal ball and an ancient looking ouija board atop it. Peter walked toward the table, but she walked past it to the wall adjacent to the table.

"No, not here, this is where I do the bullshit readings. I do the real thing back here," She pushed back the purple and gold wall curtain and slid a key into a door hidden behind. "Come on," she motioned him inside. Peter almost bolted, but that strange curiosity drove him into the next room.  
This room was small and as unremarkable as the other room was ridiculous. A card table and chairs sat in the far left corner across from a cheap, plywood desk that looked to be her office area. Peter walked in, not sure what to do. She headed directly to the left upon entering to a kitchenette, and poured coffee into a mugs.

"Sooo," Peter wondered aloud.

"Have a seat," she tilted her head to the card table and folding chairs. Peter obliged, feeling weirded out by his own cooperation and manners towards this woman. She was attractive, but manners were the last thing he pushed onto a woman when he was interested.

"Now," she sat down across from him and looked at him, her dark eyes piercing into him, "you need help don't you Peter?"

"How the fuck do you know my name?"

"I know a lot of things. Don't bother asking how, you wouldn't understand."

"The fuck are you going on about? Are you going to be a fucking bitch or help me out?"

Again, she did not react to his aggressive behavior. "I'm here to help, but I need to know something first."

"What? Did you need my sign or some other bullshit? I think I'm a Sagittarius," Peter seethed.  
"Oh please, Peter, bullshit is exactly what all that is," She waved her hand at him, dismissing his attempt at mockery. "I want to know about the other man I see in you. You wear his coat."

Peter's expression went from contempt to shock. "What?"

"You know what I am talking about. He is the one that keeps you focused on your mission -"

"The vampire," the words came out of their own accord, Peter slapped a hand over his mouth.

"Vampire?" She scoffed, then her brow furrowed, "You're serious."

"Fuck this, fuck this," Peter stood, nearly toppling the flimsy table.

"Peter, stop. Wait!" She ran after him, repeatedly grabbing his arm as he repeatedly pulled away.

"No," he turned, jabbed his finger at her, "Fuck this, and fuck you. I don't know why I even -"

"Here," she jammed something into his hand. He let it drop to the floor and spun to leave. She grabbed at his coat several more times, but he shook her off.

His feet took him back to the hotel room. He was so pissed off and exhausted that he forgot about the liquor store all together. Peter took off his long, brown coat and tossed it onto the headboard of the bed. After a shower and a leftover slice of pizza, he flopped down on the bed to watch some bad television. He was asleep ten minutes later.


End file.
